


Sherlock Has A Cold

by Trilliah (Randomslasher)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-24
Updated: 2011-10-24
Packaged: 2017-10-24 22:14:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randomslasher/pseuds/Trilliah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a cold. He is, of course, insufferable about it. John suffers stoically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock Has A Cold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thuri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thuri/gifts).



> Written for Thuri because she was feeling under the weather. The medical article jargon was pulled shamelessly from a random google search, which I will happily credit if I ever find it again.

"This is absolutely insufferable," Sherlock said, but his nose was stuffed, so it came out, "Dis is absoludley idsufferabul."

John quirked his lips into a sympathetic smile as he tugged the thermometer out of Sherlock's mouth and peered at it. "Well, you haven't got a fever," he announced. "That's good. Probably just a cold, then."

"Just a cold?" The word came out 'code.' "Just a cold?! John, I'm in agony! I'm miserable! My head is going to explode and my throat is on fire!"

"Better not talk too much, then. Don't want to exacerbate anything."

"Very funny." Sherlock pouted at him for a moment from his position on the couch. He did make quite a picture, John had to admit: bundled up in his pajamas, two dressing gowns, and wrapped up in three blankets (he'd stolen one from John's bed to complete the cocoon), his face was barely visible through the layers of fluff. But what he could see was miserable, scowling and pale and red-nosed. Every now and then, he would give a dramatic, wet sniffle.

"I think you'll live," John pronounced, setting the thermometer aside and reaching for the cup of theraflu that had been steeping on the coffee table. "Drink this."

"Don't want to," Sherlock said grumpily.

"It'll make you feel better."

"Tastes bad."

"I put honey in it."

A scowl.

"Sherlock..."

"Fine." With the air of someone being forced to suffer the most atrocious of indignities, Sherlock accepted the cup, one pale hand snaking out from the fort of blankets to grip the handle. He lifted it to his nose, took a discerning sniff, then sighed, taking a small sip. John pretended not to watch, but he noted that Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and his shoulders seemed to relax.

"There. That's better, isn't it?" he murmured, and Sherlock's eyes opened a slit to glower at him.

"Why aren't you sick?" he groused. "You were in that same interrogation room."

"I'm a doctor. I've spent a lot of time exposed to little bugs like this one--"

"Little bugs?!"

"--and my immune system is probably healthier than yours," John continued, unperturbed. "Since I get enough to eat, and try to sleep more than four or five hours a week."

Sherlock scowled at him.

"Look, if it makes you feel better," John said, turning to face him fully, "you might have infected me yourself. The same bug could be working its way through my system, incubating and biding its time. In a week I could be laid out just like you are."

Sherlock was staring now.

"Would that make you feel better? Misery loves company, right?"

Sherlock glowered and took another sip of his medicine, but John saw the small twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"Then maybe you could take care of me," John concluded with a flourish as he moved to sit in his chair, picking up his laptop. "Would be only fair, wouldn't it?"

"I don't want you to get sick," Sherlock mumbled, and John chuckled. Leave it to Sherlock to make such a statement when he could be saying it in well-wishing, or remarking that he'd rather not have to return the nursemaid favor.

"Thank you," he said anyway, turning his attention to the article he was supposed to have peer reviewed a week ago. "Let me know if you need anything."

A dangerous statement. A few sniffles and sips later, Sherlock sighed loudly. "I'm bored," he whined.

"You should be resting," John remarked without looking up.

Sherlock turned his head to peer back at John. "What are you doing?"

"Reading."

"I mean what are you reading?" Sherlock clarified, voice dripping with annoyance that he'd had to state himself so obviously.

John sighed, but smiled. "Mechanisms of Thrombocytopenia in chronic autoimmune thrombocytopenic purpura," he read.

Sherlock frowned. "What's it mean?"

John raised his eyes and peered at Sherlock over the top of the laptop. "Wouldn't you rather watch telly?"

"Mm. Dull," Sherlock said, shifting back around so he was no longer looking at John but resting with his head back against the couch cushions, eyes closed. "Tell me about this purpura business. Sounds dreadful."

John rolled his eyes, but said, "It's a condition in which the body has a chronically low platelet count," he began, but Sherlock lifted his hand and waved him off.

"Don't dumb it down, doctor. Read me the article."

John frowned. "This isn't grade-school medical stuff, Sherlock," he said. "It's complicated. And probably very dull. Are you sure you don't want to just go to sleep?"

"Of course I do. And this sounds guaranteed to get me there faster than any of your fancy honey-remedies could ever do."

John shook his head, exasperated, but decided there was no better way to get Sherlock to shut up than to do what he wanted. He read, "Autoimmune thrombocytopenic purpura (AITP) is a disorder characterized by thrombocytopenia, increased levels of platelet-associated immunoglobulin and normal to increased numbers of marrow megakaryocytes. In studies of pateints with AITP, a markedly shortened platelet survival and increased platelet turnover have been the accepted kinetic parameters of this condition..." He read on, pausing occasionally to type notes in the comments boxes as he did, always making certain to narrate aloud as he put his suggestions and corrections. After a time, he realized a soft, rhythmic sound was coming from Sherlock's general direction.

He paused in his reading and glanced up. Then smiled, in spite of himself.

From his vantage point, he could see very little of his flatmate. The mop of dark hair was standing up from the blankets, wilder than usual, and one hand was curled over the edge, fingers clutching the fabric like a child clutching a teddy bear. John set his laptop aside and rose to his feet, padding silently over to peer down at the great detective.

Sherlock was sound asleep, snoring softly, mouth open to take in the air he couldn't pull through his stuffed up nose. The mug of tea was balanced precariously in his other hand, and John carefully rescued it, setting it aside. He was gratified to see it was mostly empty. He reached down, tugging the blankets into a more comfortable arrangement and tucking them in a bit more securely. Sherlock sighed, burrowing deeper into his cocoon with a soft exhale that might have been "John."

John leaned forward, carefully stroking the sweat-dampened curls from Sherlock's brow, and pressed a soft kiss against his skin. The slight crease between Sherlock's brows disappeared as he relaxed further under the touch of John's lips, and John smiled, feeling warmed by Sherlock's unconscious trust in him.

"Rest well," he murmured, moving back to his chair and gathering his laptop up again.

Unseen by John in his nest of blankets, and with his face half-hidden in the couch cushions, Sherlock smiled.

* * *


End file.
